I can hear what you are saying, although it may seem that I am lost in thought.
Perhaps I don't hear your words, but I am looking at your hands. Your hands tell me what your words do not.
Or the room we are in, this cafe -- the music, the sound of the street. Why do they always have to put the music on? Because I like the sound of the street.
And your words, and your mouth.
I could be looking at your mouth, every imperfection. And then I would imagine you and how you felt this morning, when you saw those same imperfections in the mirror.
And how you smelled, not now, but this morning, as you really are.
Then I am still looking at you.
No, I don't listen well.